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True coppy of the epilogue to Constantine the Great

(27) True coppy of the epilogue to Constantine the Great

              A TRUE COPPY
                     OF THE

That which was firſt Publiſhed being falſe printed
                          and ſurreptitious.

Written by Mr. Dryden.

OUr Hero's happy in the Plays Concluſion,
The holy Rogue at laſt has met Confuſion :
Tho' Arius all along appear'd a Saint,
The laſt Act ſhew'd him a true Proteſtant.
Enſebius, (for you know I read Greek Authors,)
Reports, that after all theſe Plots and Slaughters,
The Court of Conſtantine was full of Glory,
And every Trimmer turn'd Addreſſing Tory
They follow'd him in Heards as they were mad :
When Clauſe was King, then all the World was glad.
Whigs kept the Places they poſſeſt before,
And moſt were in a Way of getting more
Which was much as ſaying, Gentlemen,
Here's Power and Money to be Rogues again.
Indeed there were a ſort of peaking Tools,
Some call them Modeſt, but I call e'm Fools,
Men much more Loyal, tho' not half ſo loud ;
But theſe poor Devils were caſt behind the Croud.
For bold Knaves thrive without one grain of Sence,
But good men ſtarve for want of Impudence.
Beſides all theſe, there were a ſort of Wights,
( I think my Author calls them Teckelites ; )
Such hearty Rogues, againſt the King and Laws,
They, favour'd even a Foreign Rebel's Cauſe.
When their own damn'd Deſign was quaſh'd and aw'd,
At leaſt they gave it their good Word abroad.
As many a Man, who, for a quiet Life,
Breeds out his Baſtard, not to noſe his Wife ;
Thus o're their Darling Plot, theſe Trimmers cry ;
And tho' they cannot keep it in their Eye,
They bind it Prentice to Count Teckely.
They believe not the laſt Plot, may I be curſt,
If I believe they e're believ'd the firſt ;
No wonder their own Plot, no Plot they think ;
The Man that makes it, never ſmells the Stink.
And, now it comes into my Head, I'le tell
Why theſe damn'd Trimmers lov'd the Turks ſo well.
The Original Trimmer, tho' a Friend to no man,
Yet in his heart ador'd a pretty Woman :
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever,
Kind black-eyed Rogues, for every true Believer :
And, which was more than mortal Man e're taſted,
One Pleaſure that for threeſcore Twelve-months laſted :
To turn for this, may ſurely be forgiven :
Who'd not be circumcis'd for ſuch a Heav'n !

London, Printed for J. Tonſon, at the Judge's Head in Chancery-lane, 1684.

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